Love Regency Style

by Samantha Holt

  Hiding his astonishment at his wife’s insight, especially at the very moment he was thinking the very same thing, Henry nodded. “If you would not mind, my lady,” he answered quickly, moving carefully to step over the dog and reposition himself on the bench seat next to Hannah. To be facing the direction of travel was a relief; he despised not being able to see ahead as they made their way west toward Oxfordshire.

  “Not at all, my lord. I should wish for your comfort, of course,” Hannah replied shyly, one gloved hand gathering her skirts so they were no longer spread out across the seat. She left the hand resting on a thigh, not wanting to appear as if she couldn’t sit still.

  Henry settled himself into the squabs and let out a sigh of relief as his limbs stretched a bit. Warmth crept into his feet where his boots were tucked under the dog. “Thank you, my lady. This was an excellent idea,” he said, placing a black-gloved hand over hers where it rested on her thigh. So tiny, he thought as his fingers curled slightly. If Hannah was surprised or made uncomfortable by his touch, he couldn’t sense it in her hand.

  Hannah had to suppress the start she felt at his hand clos­ing over the back of hers. The heat from his palm actually per­meated their gloves, leaving her hand bathed in comforting warmth. She wondered if she would feel that same warmth when their bodies were pressed together in their marriage bed. A frisson passed through her body at the thought.

  She should already know how it felt to have him next to her in bed. He should have been in it last night! Why hadn’t he simply bedded her when he had the chance? She had been quite ready for him, her white-blond hair loose and brushed to a gleaming shine, her new night rail clinging to her slight curves, her feet encased in daring half-slippers that displayed her toes. She had made sure the maid was gone and the bed linens were turned down. Having been told what to expect by her friends who were young matrons, especially by Elizabeth, she was quite prepared to be ravished.

  Then Henry had come to her door, and instead of coming all the way in, he had stood there on the threshold acting like some shy boy barely out of Eton attending his first ball and telling her he was very glad to meet her, but could he reserve a dance for the next ball instead?

  She had almost said, “Of course not. You’re here. Dance with me now!” Or something to that effect. How dare he? It was their wedding night. He should have claimed what was rightfully his right then and there.

  At least he’d had the decency to kiss her, although the slight pressing of lips could hardly be called a kiss. But then he had kissed her more deeply, and used his hands to great effect on her body. And then he had pleasured her quite thoroughly— her body seemed to quake even now as she remembered the sharp sensations he had created with his caresses. Who knew a man’s hands could deliver so much pleasure?

  Elizabeth knew, of course. Hannah couldn’t keep herself from blushing at the thought of some of the things George had done to Elizabeth. The woman had described them in detail, all the while seeming to re-experience the sensations she had felt when her husband had created them in the first place. George had probably pleasured her to within an inch of her life before they had even wed!

  Blast and damnation! Hannah had been ready for Gisborn last night. After traveling seventy-five miles in a coach over roads that were proving a bit rough, she rather doubted she would want him in her bed tonight! And then she wondered if she would even have her own bed, or if they would always share a marriage bed. Nothing had been said as to the sleeping arrangements at Gisborn Hall.

  Chancing another glance in his wife’s direction, Henry couldn’t help but notice Hannah’s delicate features, her skin so smooth and pale and fine, it was almost translucent, eye lashes so long they seemed to collide with the tops of her cheekbones with every blink, lips that were full but not too large—kiss­able lips, he thought. He had wanted desperately to spend the entire night kissing those lips, kiss them with far more passion than the simple kisses he had placed on them when he came to bid Hannah good night. She had looked ravishing in her night clothes, the thin fabric of her nightgown barely hiding her … charms. And her hair … he’d had no idea she had such long, lustrous hair. He wanted nothing more than to step into her bedchamber and strip her bare and slide his hands over her breasts and bottom and spread her legs and take her vir­tue as was his right as her husband. But the idea of taking her maidenhood in her own bed, the bed she had probably slept in every night of her life since being out of the cradle—it seemed wrong, somehow. Had he taken her virtue, she might be left feeling sore. Given their long coach ride to Oxfordshire, he considered she would be uncomfortable the entire trip. There was no use putting her through that. It might be a week or more before she would allow him to bed her again. And, truth be told, he wasn’t sure he would have been able to muster the courage. The effects of the champagne served just after the vicar declared the couple legally wed had long since worn off.

  So, instead, he had allowed his hands to wander and his lips to take hers more so he could keep her cries quiet than to impart any meaning to it.

  But something had happened. Lust, he told himself. His body—the traitor—had made it clear he should be with his wife. Even now, he wondered at the sudden and glorious sen­sation he had felt as Hannah’s pleasure crested, as if she were determined to take him along on the wave. But the thought of bedding his new wife made him feel as if he were betraying Sarah.

  He had only ever been with Sarah. His modest income prior to his inheritance hadn’t afforded him the life of most gentlemen. He didn’t have the funds to gamble or spend his nights in brothels, and there certainly wasn’t enough to hire a mistress, not that he ever wanted to. He had Sarah. She was the mother of his child. She was everything he had ever wanted in a wife. Damn her for thinking she wasn’t good enough to marry him!

  “Why didn’t you take my virtue last night?”

  The question, tinged with what might have been anger and probably some hurt, rang out in the suddenly cramped coach, a shock to the three sets of ears that heard it. Harold lifted his head and cocked it to one side, regarding his mistress and her look of utter astonishment for a full five seconds before realizing he, for once, wasn’t the one being accused of some wrongdoing. Henry, who had sat very still for that full five sec­onds and displayed the look of the one being accused, slowly turned to find his wife’s hand, the one he wasn’t now holding in a death grip, covering her plump lips. Her pale peaches and cream complexion had turned a bright pink. And, despite how tightly her eyes were closed at that very moment, a tear was

  forcing itself out of the corner of the eye nearest Henry.

  Oh, God, she’s going to cry.

  Henry ceased to breathe as he wondered what to say. What to do. And then instinct took over. He let go of her hand and wrapped his arms around her shoulders, pulling her hard against his chest. Her bonnet collided with his shoulder, but he had it stripped from her head in an instant, the quick flick of his wrist sending the offending velvet hat sailing onto the seat across from them. Although he wanted to kiss her just then, cover her lips and take possession of her with a punishing kiss that proved just how badly he wanted her the night before, how badly he wanted her right now, Henry simply held her body against his and kissed her forehead. If there had been any fight in her, he did not sense it. Nor did she feel stiff or unyielding in his arms. It was as if she melted against him, molding her­self to fit into the empty spaces along the front of his body. “I wanted nothing more than to bed you last night, my lady,” he whispered hoarsely. “But it would have been …” Wrong? Awk­ward? “Inappropriate,” he finally got out, rather proud that he was able to make such a sensible sounding excuse for himself.

  Hannah apparently didn’t agree, however. He felt her body suddenly become rigid, felt her head tilt until he could see her eyes. Angry eyes. Oh, God.

  “Inappropriate?” she repeated in a voice tinged with out­rage. “I am expected to bear you an heir … and a spare. How can I do that if you don’t bed me?” T
his last was delivered with the hint of a sob, as if she might really be on the verge of tears.

  Swallowing hard, Henry gave some thought to countering her annoyance with his own sudden ire. How could she talk to him like that? He thought he had spared her a night of embar­rassment at having to host her husband in the room in which she had spent her childhood nights. He thought he spared her the discomfort of having to ride in a coach while tender down there. He thought he had done right by her by not insisting on sexual intercourse in her father’s home. We’ll have intercourse when I am damn good and ready!

  And then he noticed Harold staring at him.

  The dog’s head seemed to shake ever so slightly from side to side, as if warning Henry that he was about to make a huge mistake. Or, perhaps he was warning him that it didn’t matter what he said or did. He had already made a huge mistake and there was no getting out of it.

  Henry used one hand to cup his wife’s cheek as he stared down into her bright cornflower blue eyes, made more so by the unshed tears. Even limned with tears, they were gor­geous. He settled his lips over hers, barely pressing against her plump lips until he had completely captured them. And then he kissed her, deepening the kiss until she let out a slight moan that either signaled she was appeased or that she needed to breathe. Either way, Henry slowly let go and pulled away, his eyes watching her lids as they fluttered open. He saw defiance there, he thought, and realized he still needed to explain him­self. “I did not wish to take your virtue in the bed in which you’ve spent your … maidenhood,” he stated quietly. “I intend to do so in our marriage bed. I think perhaps my bed will be most suitable.” Although, now that he thought about it, that was where he and Sarah sometimes made love. “Or we can use the bed in the mistress suite. Your suite,” he amended quickly, realizing she knew nothing of Gisborn Hall. “I have every intention of bedding you …” Frequently? Often? A couple of times a week? He was suddenly at a loss.

  How often did husbands bed their wives?

  “Every night,” Hannah stated quietly, her head nodding. “At least, until I am with child, and then as often as you wish,” she added, her face turning that shade of pink he was finding quite fetching. He wanted to spare me the embarrassment of losing my virginity in my own bed? Perhaps he is as considerate as his words make him out to be.

  Henry stared down at her. Every night? He and Sarah … well, things hadn’t been very comfortable between them these last few months. She had come to the house the day before he made his trip to London, agreeing to spend the night in Gisborn Hall while Nathan and his friend Andrew stayed in the nursery upstairs. And she had been … willing, although he sensed something was wrong when he had been unable to pleasure her quite like he was used to doing. His simple strokes and touching were no longer effective in bringing her to ecstasy. It was as if her body demanded a harder, more forceful union—a faster, more urgent coupling. Although it had left her apparently satiated, he felt as if he had violated her in some way. Then, in the morning, when he was quite pre­pared to make love to her in the light from a golden red dawn, he turned over to find her already gone from his bed. She was dressed and pulling on stockings in front of the fireplace, her attention on the dying embers. He wondered how long she had sat there, staring. He had kissed her on the cheek, hugged Nathan as hard as he dared, and bid them both goodbye as he stepped into the ancient Gisborn coach.

  He hadn’t intended to get married while on this trip; he went thinking only to obtain the title to Ellsworth Park. So why had Sarah seemed so distant? So distracted? Now that he was going home with far more than he bargained for—a willing wife who would apparently tolerate his continued rela­tionship with Sarah—Men only love their mistresses, she had said—he wondered if Sarah would be more like she had been for all the years before this one. Or would she become even more distant? Damn it, what was going on with the woman?

  “I shall come to your bedchamber every night then,” Henry finally agreed, nodding his head. “And should there be a night you do not want my company, you only need say so, and I shall take my leave of you.” There. That should be a suit­able arrangement, he thought, rather glad they had the discus­sion done before arriving at Gisborn Hall.

  “Agreed,” Hannah replied with a nod of her own. Having carefully watched him as he made his proclamation, she won­dered if he might kiss her on those occasions. Or were kisses reserved only for Sarah? For the kiss he had bestowed on her only moments ago was quite … pleasant, really. Very satisfac­tory. Thrilling, even, when she thought for a moment she was about to be dumped on the floor of the coach—or rather onto poor Harold—had Henry let go his hold on her.

  Henry continued to stare down at Hannah, thinking of the kiss they had just shared. She had allowed it quite readily, returned it even. Had he wanted to continue the kiss, he real­ized she would not have objected. She’s gazing at me. As if she expects something. “What … what is it?” he wondered, his face lowering to just inches above hers.

  “I would not object to being kissed, of course … whenever you should think it … appropriate,” she stammered.

  Appropriate? How could her command of the English lan­guage leave her with such a poor choice of words? She could have said whenever you desire or whenever you wish or anytime of the day or night.

  Good God, can she read my mind? “I … Thank you. I will remember that,” Henry answered, watching her face as it pinked up again. Before he was quite aware of what he was doing, his lips were back on hers, completing the kiss he had started only moments ago, his attention so thoroughly on the kiss and the feel of her lips and the texture of her teeth against his tongue and the taste of her mouth and the scent of hon­eysuckle that wafted from her hair, that he didn’t realize the coach had taken a turn into the yard of a posting inn until the driver jumped down from the box and opened the door to the coach. Ending the kiss as quickly as he could, and then chid­ing himself for feeling embarrassed at being caught kissing his own wife, Henry straightened Hannah on his lap and nodded at the driver as the man put down the steps.

  While the horses were being changed out for a fresh team, they would have time to get tea and sustenance in the posting inn. For Henry, the time would give him a chance to learn more about his new wife. For Hannah, the time would give her a chance to realize her new husband was far more than she expected.

  As for Harold, it was a chance to relieve himself and to take a nap in blessed silence.

  Chapter 9

  Welcome to Gisborn Hall

  After nearly nine hours of traveling in the well-sprung coach, Henry was relieved when they made the turn toward Tadpole Bridge and his lands just north of the River Isis. Han­nah had fallen asleep shortly after their luncheon a few hours before, and only stirred when the coach took a nasty bump or swayed more than usual. Her head lay in the small of his shoulder, his arm wrapped protectively across the back of her shoulders. His thoughts went to later, when he would join her in the mistress suite at Gisborn Hall and make her his wife. He wondered if she would allow him to share her bed for the entire night, or if she would insist he return to his bedchamber.

  “Is that Gisborn Hall?” he heard in an awed whisper. Henry smiled, feeling a sense of pride. “Indeed,” he answered, giving Hannah a kiss on the forehead before allowing her to raise herself to a sitting position. Harold noticed the slowing coach and raised his head, his ears perking up.

  The imposing gray stone structure appeared to have been dropped from high up, it was so embedded into the earth, its foundations quite solid and at an angle to the road leading up to the circular drive. Rectangular except for where the front doors were encased in a portico, the house was symmetrical down to the two topiary trees that flanked the entry. Dozens of windows stretched along the second story, each placed in perfect symmetry. The windows on either side of the front door were in triplets and pairs, suggesting the rooms there were larger, perhaps the library and parlor. From a distance, it looked simply grand.

  Hannah felt a
stirring and grinned; she would be mistress of this house. Once they had pulled up into the drive and the horses were slowing in front of the double doors, she noted how the façade was weathered, one window was cracked and the plantings along the front of the house appeared in need of a gardener’s touch. A bit of work and it would be a proper look­ing house for an earl, she thought.

  The coach door opened. Harold lifted himself and stepped out, apparently aware that neither human would be able to do so until he was out of the way. Gisborn squeezed Hannah’s hand and stepped out, turning to hand her down. Once Han­nah was sure her feet her under her and her skirts were shaken out, she glanced around. A man not much younger than her was hurrying up to see to the horses, and a footman was undo­ing the straps that held their valises to the back of the coach. She allowed Henry to escort her up the five steps and to the front doors. She couldn’t help but notice Henry inhale before he pulled the brass knocker. Harold sat next to her as they all waited.

  No one answered. At least, not immediately.

  Hannah glanced at Henry, wondering if they had arrived on the butler’s day off. Hadn’t Henry sent word ahead that they would be arriving today? She was about to ask when the door opened to reveal an elderly man, so stooped he had to lean back in order to determine it was his master who stood at the door. “Ah, Gisborn,” the butler said as he stepped back to allow them entrance, a gnarled hand waving them in.